The Lotus Eaters

Isla Real, Balboa, Terra Nova

Fernandez knew why he'd spared former High Admiral Martin Robinson's life. The swine had some skills that were useful. He wasn't nearly so sure why he hadn't left the former Marchioness of Amnesty, Lucretia Arbeit, in the hold to drown as the old Hildegard von Mises went down without a trace. Maybe I'm getting soft in my old age. He considered that for a moment and thought, Nah, that's not it. Must be a reason, even if I can't think what it was. No matter; it'll come to me. In the meantime . . .

Wish to hell I knew why Patricio was so determined to get this shuttle working again. Some things he won't share with anybody.

* * *

"It would help, sir," Robinson said, head bowed in humility, "if I knew why you wanted the shuttle."

Robinson wore prison stripes, as did Lucretia Arbeit. Both were kept, under guard and in separate cells, under the central hill of the island, just off from the hangar cave wherein sat the rebuilt but still unserviceable shuttle. Their complexions were pallid from lack of sun.

"Never mind," Fernandez barked. "You don't need to know at this point. Just get the dozen men selected for training as able to fly one as you can."

Robinson shrugged. "As you wish, sir. They're already fully capable of pre-flighting the thing. And they've theoretical understanding of the nuances. I've drilled them into the ground on the inert simulator."

"How's programming on the flight simulator coming?" Fernandez asked.

Again, the former High Admiral shrugged. "It's a simulator. By definition, it won't be as good as the real thing. If you could get a replacement flight computer . . ." Robinson let the thought trail off.

"Working on it." Which is to say, beating my head against a wall. Patricio's pet senator in the Federated States couldn't help, or wouldn't, which amounts to the same thing. And we can't fix the bastard. Butter-fingered damned infantry.

"No matter how well I train the pilots," Robinson reminded, "the thing still won't fly without the flight computer."

"Working on it."

Robinson slumped his shoulders, clasped his hands together in front of himself and bobbed his head briskly three or four times. "Yessir. Sorry, sir."

One of the worst things about torture, thought Fernandez, is that when it's over—assuming you don't just off the fucker, of course—you've got something less than a human being to deal with. Then again, this one wasn't much of a human being to begin with.

* * *

Fernandez, since his own offices were in Ciudad Balboa on the mainland, had borrowed a driver and vehicle from a friend once he'd arrived on the island. Since the Legion's move to the mainland was still somewhat incomplete, and since full facilities were likewise incomplete and would be for some years, the main military exchange remained on the island, not too far from the Punta de Coco airfield. He had the driver take him there.

There wasn't much he needed, actually, that couldn't have been purchased in the smaller exchanges near the city but, "Since I am here, I may as well."

No ID card was required on the island since it was almost entirely military. The few civilians around, mostly in one or another version of the "entertainment" industry, were allowed privileges as a matter of courtesy. Fernandez walked through the main doors and headed for the liquor section. That was one area where the prices and selection beat the both the military and civilian facilities of the city hands down.

On the way, Fernandez passed by the book store and decided to pick up some reading material. It was one of Carrera's tenets that a major reason that most of the armies of Colombia del Norte stank to the high heavens was that they had far too limited a selection of military reading in their native tongues for effective self education. Legionary Press, a wholly owned subsidiary of Legiones del Cid, S. A. , made good that lack in Balboa, having translated and printed, so far, about a quarter of Carrera's personal library along with more than a thousand other militarily significant works.

All publications were made available, down to maniple level, by the Legion, without cost to the units. For people who wanted their own copies, however, or wanted, at least, not to have to wait—since the free distribution system was never quite as timely as the "for cost" system—the books were available via the exchange.

Hmmm, Fernandez thought, gazing over the shelves of the "New Editions" section, already have a copy of Intelligence in War, and besides, the author now works in my shop. Ah, I see Marqueli Mendoza has something out under her own name, Family and State. I'll get that, he decided, fingering the book from the shelf and placing it under one arm. Aha, a new, unabridged edition of Complete Verse of Rudyard Kipling. Absolutely got to have that. And . . . what's this? Memoirs of Belisario Carrera (Abridged). That might be interesting. And, lastly, since I can't carry any more conveniently, not and have room for a couple of bottles of cognac, I'll get Poetry of the Great Global War.

That should do for a while.